


Grateful

by ALMartin1011



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Bucky Barnes Is a Good Bro, Gen, It's kinda angsty, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Project Rebirth, Protective Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Steve needs therapy, The feels, and the feels are sad, but he'll be okay, but it's okay I swear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-12-21 10:29:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21073415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ALMartin1011/pseuds/ALMartin1011
Summary: Steve knows he should be grateful for the gift he was given through Project Rebirth but his new life wasn’t as easy as he expected it to be.





	Grateful

**Author's Note:**

> Hello lovelies! We’re trying something new today! My very first Steve fic and I’m nervous AF about posting it because I feel like this is a version of Steve that most people won’t really jive with. Everyone expects him to be this icon hero but like he’s still going to have some pretty raw emotions. The man went through war, and losing his best friend, and then battling his best friend, and alien monsters, etc. I refuse to believe that our sweet, scrappy little Brooklyn boy came through all this unscathed. We see other heroes battle their mental health but never Steve, he’s the stoic one. I think not. And so this fic was born. I hope you all like it as much as I do! Please be gentle, I’m just getting my feet wet writing Steve. And thanks for bearing with me while I rant, I love you all more than words can express.

Steve had a lot to be grateful for when he walked out of the Vita-Ray chamber in 1943. Something as simple as taking a full breath without wheezing or coughing seemed miraculous after twenty five years of battling endless illnesses in a tiny, frail, body. Dr. Erskine crowed that Project Rebirth was a success and in that moment Steve felt like one too. Steve had assumed life would have been easier now that he was in a more powerful form. He had the natural moment of adjustment, having shot up from 5’4” to 6’2” in just moments, but other than that he expected to have less hurdles in his life from that day forward.

Steve was wrong.

One of the first things Steve was grateful for was his improved eyesight. He no longer needed ultra thick glasses and his astigmatism had cleared up as well. The world was alive with fine details and vivid colors, and he couldn’t wait to get everything down on paper in his sketchbook. He wanted to capture the way strands of Peggy’s hair fell around her shoulders, slightly mussed, after a long day, and the way the rays of sunlight filtered through his bedroom curtains in the early morning. He never got them down though. Steve sat down one evening as Peggy curled up with a book, ready to commit the scene to his page when a sharp, snapping sound startled them both. Steve looked down at his hands and found he’d broken his pencil in two. The second pencil he held too gently, unable to keep his hand steady for fear of breaking it as well, and then in a moment of frustration he held it tighter and it too snapped. His once beloved sketch pad sat awkwardly in his hands, feeling as if it were the wrong size even once he got the pressure correct on his pencils. Steve missed his former size for a moment, the way the sketch pad had fit perfectly balanced on his lap, how the pencils had felt like an extension of his own hands when he drew. He was clunky feeling in his new form, his body designed for brute strength instead of artistic endeavors. Steve shook himself when he realized he was feeling down about the amazing gift he’d been given. Sarah Rogers had instilled a deep sense of humility in her son and Steve felt painfully guilty at having a momentary lapse of appreciation for the gift he’d been given. 

Steve was so surprised the first few days when slept through the night. Outside of the times he was so ill he couldn’t maintain consciousness, he could count on one hand the number of times he had slept all the way through to morning. If it wasn’t his asthma waking him up to wheeze or cough, it was his arthritis aching so deeply it woke him. Sometimes his heart palpitations would start up as he slept too, waking him with a jolt, feeling like his heart would beat out of his chest. Bucky used to tease that he pitied the dame who tried to sleep over in Steve Roger’s bed. After Project Rebirth, Steve was grateful each morning for a full night's sleep, until the nightmares started after his first real battle in the war. Sleep wasn’t so appealing after that. It wasn’t until a lifetime later that Steve knew why the memories of war haunted his dreams, Sam taught him the word: PTSD. But back then all Steve knew was that he longed for the nights he was woken by a cough, instead of in a cold sweat with the cries of dying men echoing in his ears. 

The thing that Steve missed most, on the rare moments he let himself admit he missed anything at all, was the way he used to disappear in a crowded room. Social anxiety was as palpable to Steve as his physical ailments and it was the one thing Project Rebirth couldn’t cure him of. He was called the star spangled man with a plan, but really he was still a sweating, nervous wreck when all eyes turned to him for direction. Steve wanted to curl into himself in the way his 95 pound body used to be so good at, and slip away into a corner, lost in the collection of larger bodies around him. Now he stood a head above the rest, the breadth of his shoulders and sharp line of his jaw inspiring confidence in his men as he detailed their next moves. It was fortunate Steve was a whiz with math, having taught himself more at home than he’d ever learned in school, and was able to piece together battle strategies based on logic and equations. His anxiety only increased seventy years later when he returned to a strange new world he was completely unprepared for. More often than not Steve missed the days he could drift through the world like a ghost. In the modern world he couldn’t even walk to the store without being stopped by a “fan” let alone try and spend a quiet day at The Met or grab a baseball game in peace. 

It was both harder and easier when Bucky returned. Bucky seemed to instinctively know Steve was struggling. Bucky encouraged Steve’s art whenever he could and while Steve had gotten better, he knew he would never quite be what he was and it frustrated him. Bucky tried on several occasions to throw an arm around Steve like he used to when Steve would get nervous out in a crowd, but Steve would blanch at the embrace and Bucky would recoil, distraught that he had somehow made it worse. Steve wanted to explain it but couldn’t past the lump in his throat. Back in the old days Steve’s narrow shoulders had fit so perfectly under Bucky’s arm, pulling him in to shield him from the world. Steve was too tall, too broad, now and what should have brought him comfort was just a painful reminder that nothing would ever be the same. 

After months of watching Steve struggle Bucky finally put his foot down. He’d been in therapy since before his trial started and it was helping immensely. His therapist had offered to see Steve for an informal meeting after Bucky had, reluctantly, shared some of his concerns with him. “You’re going. Tomorrow.” Bucky said firmly, staring at Steve across the dinner table. 

“I don’t need a therapist, really. Maybe it’s working out for you but there’s no need for me to go. I’m not…” Steve trailed off before he could say something tactless. 

Bucky didn’t let it slide though. “Not what? Hmm? Don’t punk out on me. What did you mean? Yes, I go to therapy. So what does that make me? Weak? Damaged? Less than?” 

“That’s not what I meant, Buck.” Steve ducked his head, completely chagrined. 

“Are you sure about that? Because you’re the one who’s struggling and refusing to go and even entertain the idea of getting some help. You don’t have to struggle. I know I’m not the poster boy for mental health but I’m a hell of a lot better off because of Dr. Franklin. I think you would be too. Just talk to him once, see if you feel any better afterwards.”

Steve groaned, knowing he was on the losing end of the argument.

“I need you to be okay, pal.” Bucky continued, “It’s you and me to the end of the line, right?” 

“To the end of line.” Steve said quietly, nodding in agreement.

“Then tomorrow morning, after your run- don’t give me that look Stevie, we’ll go over to see Dr. Franklin and you can just meet him.” 

“Okay, if that will make you happy, we’ll go. Now will you please finish your steak? You wouldn't believe what these things cost nowadays.” 

Bucky chuckled and speared a piece of meat on his fork, grinning as he took a bite, his smiling eyes never leaving Steve’s. 

~~~~~

Steve was still hesitant to meet with Dr. Franklin the next morning but he had promised Bucky he would go and he was a man of his word. Thankfully Bucky didn’t insist on participating other than the initial introductions. He said he had plans and would be back before the hour was up. Steve doubted he actually had plans but appreciated the sentiment. Dr. Franklin seemed nice enough, Steve mused. He could see why Bucky was so trusting of the man after a few minutes of idle chit chat. Steve didn’t expect to get anything out of the session but was too polite to say so. 

It all started over a banana. There was a banana sitting on Dr. Franklin’s desk and Steve gave it a subtle glare when he spotted it. The doctor noticed and asked Steve if he disliked bananas. It was an innocuous question but somehow it was also the key to Pandora’s box.

“I used to.” Steve told him with a sigh. “They don’t taste the same anymore. Not that I’d had very many growin’ up but I remember the flavor and those things are just not it. I read a few years ago that apparently the variety we had back in the 20s have all died out and the kind available now are a different type.” 

“I’m sure you find a lot of things like that.” Dr. Franklin said simply. But it was a leading statement and Steve took the bait whether he meant to or not.

“Oh boy, do I. You’d be amazed at how things change in seventy years.”

“Like what?”

“Well you certainly can’t get a normal cup of coffee, that’s for sure. And I will never understand why everything has to have a scent or color…” Once the flood gates had opened it seemed impossible for Steve to stop. Dr. Franklin steered the conversation around gently, letting Steve get things off his chest after so many years of being stoic and putting on a brave face. Steve talked about his confusion of waking up after the ice, the painful longing for the world he’d left behind in the 40s, and even a little about how hard it was to find that Project Rebirth hadn’t solved all of his problems after all. 

Steve was mortified when the buzzer sounded and Dr. Franklin’s assistant announced his next appointment had arrived. Steve had gone on for over ninety minutes without realizing it. Dr. Franklin didn’t seem overly concerned and told Steve to think about what they’d talked about and consider coming back next week to talk again. 

Bucky was pacing in the waiting room and Steve noted his hair was shaggy looking, like he’d been running his hands through it. “You okay, Stevie?” He asked, pulling him close for a quick hug. 

Steve realized he must look as worn out as he felt. “I’m good, Buck. Can we go home though?”

“Yeah, of course. Let’s go.” Bucky steered Steve out the door. 

Back at their apartment Steve was quiet for most of the afternoon and Bucky wondered if taking Steve to therapy had been a mistake. 

Steve did a lot of thinking like Dr. Franklin had asked him to do and the next week, same day, same time, Steve was back in the therapist’s office baring his soul all over again. He went back week after week, even when it was tough to get over the hurdle they were tackling at the time. Slowly he healed. And eventually Steve found the peace and happiness he had been chasing since the lid to the Vita-Ray chamber opened almost eighty years before.


End file.
